Читать книгу Secrets in the Shadows - Hannah Emery - Страница 13

Rose, 1921

The last heat of the summer had made the train to Blackpool smell of other people’s sweat. Rose could still smell it when they stepped out of the carriage onto the swarming platform. She looked up at the sharp blue sky, wondering if the whole holiday would smell brown and dirty, until her worries were melted away by what she saw.

Past people’s hats, past people’s faces that were blurred from Rose’s jerky movements through the crowds, and up, up in the sky, was the place she had wanted to see for all of her eleven years. It was just as wonderful as the picture her father had shown her: Blackpool Tower stared down at Rose proudly, calm amongst the hullabaloo of the station.

Rose, who had only ever been to Scarborough on her holidays, stared up at the Tower all the way to their hotel. She didn’t look at anything else. She tripped over twice and was scolded by her mother four times for not watching where she was going. But she didn’t care. It would take something very, very special for Rose to want to look anywhere except way up above her, to the tangle of iron crisscrosses that stretched high, high up into the sky, to the beautiful peak that floated in the clouds.

It wasn’t until the middle of her holiday that something very special took Rose’s mind and eyes from Blackpool Tower.

Rose and her parents had been walking along the promenade, from the north to the south, for what felt like a very long time. Rose kept glancing backwards to look into the sky, and every time she did, Blackpool Tower bore down upon her. The crowds of people moved slowly along the promenade, for everybody was gazing at something: the endless roaring sea, or the sands crammed with families, or the fairground rides that soared round and round. The walk to the Pleasure Beach was taking so long that when Rose’s mother spotted a space on a bench, she pulled Rose and her father over to it so that they could all rest their aching legs.

They had been sitting on the bench, the early September sun blazing down on them, for only a few minutes before Rose’s father spotted a friend of his walking by. Rose’s father jumped up and patted his friend heartily on the shoulder as they exclaimed about the chances of spotting each other away on holiday, and Rose’s mother smiled politely at the man’s wife, who wore a fancy yellow hat.

As her parents stood and laughed about things Rose didn’t understand, she stared up at the Tower some more. When the sun began to make tiny white dots on her eyes, and her neck became sore, she dropped her gaze and looked along the colourful promenade that was shining with people. She looked at the green trams and the stalls selling salty seafood. She looked up towards The Pleasure Beach, at the row of hotels opposite a man holding some donkeys, and it was there that she spotted the door.

A tiny handwritten sign above it made every little hair on Rose’s body stand on end in excitement.

Gypsy Sarah. Fortunes Told Here.

Rose knew that her mother would scold and her father would frown if she moved from her spot on the bench, but something inside Rose made her stand and wander over to the door. The door was blue, which was Rose’s third favourite colour. Rose pushed at it, wanting to know what was behind it so much that her insides seemed to quiver a little as it gave way.

Colours and shapes that Rose had never seen before in her quiet Yorkshire life dangled and jingled behind that door. And amongst all the purples and pinks and golds and crystals and gems sat the oldest woman Rose had ever seen.

Gypsy Sarah’s crinkled face puckered as she saw Rose hovering in the doorway.

‘Are you here for a reading?’ she whispered, gesturing to Rose with a hand that looked as though it was made of the brown paper Rose’s dresses were sometimes wrapped in when they were new.

Rose tore her gaze away from Gypsy Sarah, and turned to see her mother and father still deep in conversation with the people near the bench. She could quite possibly have her fortune told before her parents even noticed that she’d gone.

She turned back to the room. ‘Yes, please,’ she answered quietly, her words flying out amongst the exotic colours.

Rose knew little about fortune tellers: she knew little about anything. She did not expect her life’s story to be told, or for Gypsy Sarah to smell of a strange combination of burning wood and lavender and raw meat, or for her hands to be grabbed and squeezed, or for Gypsy Sarah to cry out in a scratchy voice:

‘You must find the boy with purple eyes, for he will give you your life! He will give you a gift!’

‘A gift?’ Rose asked, intrigued and wide-eyed.

A gift, Rose thought as she carefully placed every coin of her holiday pocket money into Gypsy Sarah’s quivering hand, as she shuffled out of the shadows of the room and blinked in the bright sunlight, as she sneaked back to her place on the bench and sat as though she had never moved while her parents continued to talk to their friends, as she slept by the side of her snoring mother and father in Room 35 at The Fortuna Hotel.

Puppies and hair ribbons and books and dolls filled Rose’s mind each time she thought of Gypsy Sarah and the boy with the purple eyes. For what else, to an eleven-year-old girl, could a gift mean?

Rose thought of the boy with the purple eyes as she was swept along the crammed promenade, as she ran her hands through the gritty beige sand on the beach, as she sat up straight in the hotel restaurant. She looked into the eyes of the boy who helped the man holding the donkeys, of the boy selling oysters in the little white hut, of the boy who was staying in the room next door at The Fortuna Hotel. But she saw no purple eyes.

On Saturday, Rose bathed in the sea as her parents snoozed on the sand. She paddled at the water’s edge for some time, and then walked out until the water reached her shoulders. Although Rose wasn’t a very good swimmer, she managed to propel herself a little by kicking her legs haphazardly and waving her arms against the cool waves. The water was calm and lulled her gently out to sea. The swarms of people bathing and splashing and shouting became more diluted as Rose moved away from the water’s edge. The silver water blurred around her.

And then, everything shot into a burst of magnificent colour.

He was swimming towards her, shooting through the water like a fish. His eyes were not the purple that Rose had imagined. They weren’t a pale, striking lilac as she had thought they would be, but a deep, velvet violet. When he smiled at Rose, she began to tremble and lost her momentum beneath the water. She fumbled, her legs kicking wildly, bitter salt flying into her mouth and making her want to spit and cry out.

‘Well! What’s the matter with you?’ the boy giggled, treading water expertly. His voice was a twinkling bell, light with laughter.

Rose frowned. ‘Nothing’s the matter, you just frightened me.’

The boy held out his hand, which was brown, and shiny with water. Rose took it, and they moved towards the shore. She continued to kick and the boy pulled her along, so that she moved almost gracefully through the waves.

‘What’s your name?’ the boy asked as they felt sculpted sand appear beneath their feet.

‘Rose. What’s yours?’

The boy laughed again, his dark face screwing up in pleasure. ‘I’m not going to tell you.’ He stuck out his tongue, then smiled. His teeth, although crooked, looked white against his skin. He rubbed his black hair from his face as they walked away from the water.

Rose stiffened, and wished that she hadn’t told the boy her name. She felt hard little goosebumps prickle her skin as the sea breeze washed over her, and wondered again what her gift from him might be.

‘What are you doing tomorrow afternoon, Rose? I have something exciting planned,’ the boy said, wiping his nose with his hand and leaving behind a streak of water on his cheek.

‘I’m—’ Rose squinted over to where her parents lay on the sand. Tomorrow was their last day: their train home was at 6.30 tomorrow evening. She thought about how long and bleak the day would seem, knowing that it was their last. ‘I’m not doing anything, really. But we have a train home to catch tomorrow evening, so my parents might want me to stay with them all day.’

‘Stay with them all day? But you’re not a baby,’ the boy, who didn’t look much older than Rose, said.

Rose puffed out her shiny wet chest. ‘No, I’m not. What have you got planned?’

The boy shrugged and moved closer to Rose conspiratorially. ‘I’m going to sneak into the Pavilion. You should come.’

‘On the North Pier? But won’t it be closed in the afternoon?’

‘Yes, that’s why I have to sneak in. If I manage it, we’ll have it to ourselves.’

Rose frowned as she thought about this strange boy’s plan. She had watched a concert in the Indian Pavilion on the North Pier a few nights before with her parents. It was a beautiful, exotic hall full of blue and green and red decorations that reminded Rose of other worlds, ones she would probably never even see. The Pavilion had been filled with people and perfume and hats and music when Rose had visited. She imagined being there when it was still and quiet, and a delicious shiver coursed through her body.

‘I’ll come. Where shall I meet you?’

The boy leapt with joy, high into the air, and Rose smiled, glad that she had made him happy.

‘I’ll meet you on the pier at 4 o’clock. Outside the sweet kiosk. We’ll take some fudge in with us.’

Rose nodded, wondering what she could tell her parents, and thinking that she had perhaps made a terrible mistake, but before she could change her mind, the boy with the purple eyes had shot off through the crowds.

At 3.30 on Sunday, Rose’s mother was folding clothes very carefully back into the suitcase, and Rose’s father was sitting in the hotel lounge reading his newspaper. Rose sat on the bed, swinging her legs forwards and backwards. She stood up, then sat down again. The boy with the purple eyes would be expecting her soon. Rose didn’t want to let him down, and she didn’t want to get the train back home to Yorkshire’s black streets without her gift.

‘Mummy?’ she said after a little while, her legs kicking furiously against the bed. She had practised her speech in her head over a hundred times in bed last night, but now that she had to say it, she didn’t feel very confident.

‘Yes, Rose?’ her mother replied, as she held up a stained blouse to the light and shook her head.

‘I made a friend yesterday. And I’d like to see him again before we leave. He has something for me.’

‘I see. I wonder if this is vinegar?’ Rose’s mother lay the blouse on the bed and scratched at the stain gently with her rounded fingernail. ‘I don’t remember spilling anything.’

‘So, can I visit my friend?’

Rose’s mother turned, distracted from the blouse for a moment. ‘He’s staying here, is he?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Rose remembered the boy’s tough skin and long hair, and doubted that he was staying anywhere like The Fortuna.

‘Ah!’ her mother said, her eyes suddenly becoming wide. ‘I remember! It’s a wine stain! My glass was a little too full and I spilt some. Well, that should wash out without too much of a problem.’

‘Mummy?’

‘Well, that is a relief. This was new for the holiday. Yes, Rose?’

‘Can I go and see him? Quickly?’

Rose’s mother folded the blouse, and placed it in the case. ‘Yes, yes. But be quick.’

Rose sped out of the huge front of the Fortuna Hotel, clattering down the wide steps and tearing along the promenade towards the North Pier. She wound in and out of jostling bodies, past the refreshment rooms and the portrait studios. When she reached the end of the pier, she saw the pink and blue sign hanging above Seaton’s sweet kiosk. There were two girls who looked about Rose’s age waiting to be served, and Rose hung back, feeling as though she didn’t want anybody to see her. She watched the girls take their paper bags from the man in the stall, and then looked around her. Everybody seemed to be in a group, bouncing from one person to the next, and Rose suddenly felt very alone.

And then, past Seaton’s sweet kiosk, past the ticket kiosk and next to the closed doors of the Indian Pavilion, Rose saw the boy, his face a shadow amongst the bright, swirling colours of the pier. He smiled and beckoned her, and although there was a flurry of noise around her, Rose’s world fell into a blurry, underwater silence.

As Rose moved nearer towards the boy, she noticed that he was holding a small, glistening box. Could this be her gift? Her heart fluttering with all kinds of ideas about what a small silver box could contain, she broke into a run. When she reached the boy, she was breathless and laughing, although she didn’t quite know what she was laughing at.

The boy didn’t speak to her. He took out of his pocket an odd, gold key, and without looking like he was doing anything he shouldn’t, unlocked the grand, high door of the Indian Pavilion. Rose stared at the boy, wondering how he looked so confident when he was doing something he wasn’t allowed to. Rose knew that she would have dropped the key and been caught red-faced straight away. The boy turned to her and grabbed her arm.

‘Quickly!’ he hissed, and they tumbled into the giant room, the door blowing shut behind them with a bang.

The Pavilion looked different in the daytime. Although Rose had thought it beautiful when she had visited the other night, the crowd of people and roar of the orchestra had hidden much of the extravagant decoration. It was even grander than the Winter Gardens. Rose lay back and rested on her elbows so that she could stare up at the huge glass skylight that ran along the centre of the roof. She could make out gulls circling ahead of them, their grey wings bouncing on the blustering winds.

‘You know, I am going to live somewhere like this one day,’ the boy announced, making Rose sit up and look at him.

‘It’s true,’ he said, seeing Rose’s doubtful expression. ‘It’s meant to look like an Indian temple. And I have Indian blood.’

‘You can’t be all the way from India,’ Rose said, wrinkling her nose in confusion.

‘Well, my grandfather was. I could be an Indian King for all we know. And one day, I’m going to travel there, and I’m going to find out. And my palace will look just like this.’

‘Can I come and visit?’ Rose asked.

The boy shrugged as though he didn’t care either way, and Rose wondered, not for the first time, if she had found the right boy after all. He flicked open his silver box, but before Rose’s heart could begin fluttering again at a possible gift, he picked out a drooping cigarette and lit it with a matchstick.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ Rose said, suddenly feeling very much like her mother.

The boy stared at her with his violet eyes, smoke floating out of his mouth and curling around Rose’s face. The smell was heavy and almost pleasant in a way, and Rose took in deep breaths until her head was filled with grey, making her cough delicately into her powder blue sleeve.

I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke in here, Rose was going to say. But something stopped her. Not the fact that the boy might be an Indian King, or the fact that Gypsy Sarah had told Rose to find him, but because Rose wanted this moment to last. She wanted to be in the Indian Pavilion in Blackpool with smoke curling around her ears and weaving through her hair and her mouth, with the boy and not with her parents. She felt as though she had left a grey world behind and had stepped into a world of power and movement and colour, and she didn’t want to leave it. Not just yet.

And so they sat, with the colours of India all around them, yellowed and hazy with smoke.

After a time of sitting, the boy jumped to his feet, tossing his cigarette end away. ‘They’ll be coming in to set up for tonight’s concert soon. You’d better go. I’ll lock up again.’

They walked to the doors of the Pavilion and Rose looked out to the sea which was glinting with the dipping sun, and then back at the boy.

‘You can come and visit me, if you like,’ he said after a few seconds. ‘When I’m King.’

Rose smiled at the boy. ‘Goodbye.’

She skipped a little as she headed back to the north of the pier. She liked the idea of seeing the boy again, in a land as exotic as the Pavilion. She pulled her collar up to her nostrils and inhaled the smell of cigarette smoke, smiling as she did so. She surely hadn’t been with the boy for too long. She would be able to get back to the hotel in plenty of time for the train home.

But as Rose neared the end of the pier, she saw that the swarm of people in front of her had swelled. There were screeches and wails floating out from the crowd, and Rose felt a prick of fright at trying to find a path through it. People were gesturing, clambering over one another. They all seemed to be looking past Rose, behind her.

She turned, and what she saw in that moment haunted her forever.

The end of the pier was a terrifying orange. Flames roared up into the sky, shooting higher and higher with each second. The dark smell of burning wood was suddenly thick in the air.

‘The Pavilion!’ she heard someone wail.

At that moment, a burst of sparks flew from the pier and shattered the sky into fragments.

‘Good thing the Pavilion is empty,’ the man next to Rose murmured.

And suddenly, Rose was running towards the pier, snaking through the gasping crowd, the flames pulling her like a magnet. She thought of nothing but his purple eyes as she moved closer and closer towards the rumbling pavilion. The crowds trickled to nobody but two pier officials, who launched buckets of water towards the flames in panic. They didn’t see Rose: didn’t see her pause for half a second for fear of being eaten by the flames; didn’t see her sneak down the side of the crackling wooden sweet kiosk. They didn’t see her pull a boy underneath the tangled iron of the pier, into the safety of the sea. Everybody watched the frightening, flashing sky, mesmerised by the cloud of black smoke dancing above their heads.

The water tasted black, and Rose struggled to swim and clutch the boy’s bony body at the same time. He seemed to be dozing, his eyes half closed in a sort of dream. Rose tried to shout, but the sound of her voice was washed away with the waves. She pounded her legs against the heavy water, trying to move away from the splitting pier. Shards of glowing wood floated around her and slices of fire hurtled beside them.

She pounded, and moved, slowly, slowly, until the boy’s eyes began to open.

‘Swim!’ Rose shouted as his eyelids flickered. ‘Swim!’

And soon, his weight became lighter, as he began to move beside Rose in the littered waves. The tide was working with them and carried them towards the shore. Rose felt her legs give way as they reached the sand, and she felt herself retching, her body forcing black water from her stomach out onto the sand. She felt his arm around her and his smoky breath next to her face as they lay together. Still, nobody saw them, nobody noticed their entwined bodies, for everybody was staring up at the flashing sky.

‘My train,’ Rose moaned, and tried to shuffle herself up on the sand. She lifted her hand to her hair, which was slick and cold. ‘My parents,’ she said next.

‘I’ll come with you. I’ll tell them what you did for me,’ said the boy.

Rose looked at the boy, who, even after almost drowning in water, was still filthy. She looked at his nest of knotted black hair and his jutting collarbone and his clever smile.

‘No. You mustn’t do that. They wouldn’t like you.’ She stumbled to her feet, which squelched beneath her like two jellies. ‘I have to go.’

The boy lay on the sand and stared up at her. ‘Come back to me one day, won’t you.’

Rose smiled and thought that she might love him. ‘Of course I will.’

She climbed the stone steps up onto the promenade and made her way through the sighing crowds.

It was only after she had told her parents that she had gone in the sea to rescue a little girl’s dog, after she had joined them in the dash to the train station, after she had flopped down on her seat on the train in a dry lemon-yellow dress, that Rose remembered.

She remembered as their train huffed through the damp green countryside, over steep hills and past glassy lakes.

She still didn’t have her gift.